


never fall in love with you

by sweetwinegift



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: I WAS BULLIED INTO WRITING THIS I'M SO SORRY, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-24
Updated: 2018-11-24
Packaged: 2019-08-28 14:01:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16724772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetwinegift/pseuds/sweetwinegift
Summary: "The press wants a rivalry, and who is Sascha to deny them?"aka, twitter came together and peer pressured me into writing the sascha/stef enemies to lovers fic that literally none of u wanted





	never fall in love with you

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this with a gun to my head  
> title from 'never fall in love' by MØ and jack antonoff

** never fall in love with you **

****

Stefanos Tsitsipas wins the Next Gen Finals, which is- well, kind of laughable, if Sascha’s being honest; after ending two consecutive seasons in London, he thinks it’s sort of ridiculous that people are talking about Tsitsipas as his greatest rival. He liked it better when Kyrgios was the competition.

 

Contrary to popular belief, Sascha isn’t keeping up with the happenings in Milan to see whether he’s in any danger from his contemporaries, and contrary to even more popular belief, he’s especially not keeping up with the happenings in Tsitsipas’ career. Sascha supposes making it to the final in Canada is noteworthy, but it’s not like Tsitsipas did that and then beat Roger Federer for the title, so Sascha’s hardly worried about his position as _heir apparent._

 

So: Tsitsipas is victorious in Milan, and because Sascha is very much not keeping tabs on him, he doesn’t find this out until a little over a day later when his father, grim-faced but no more so than usual, mentions it during practice.

 

Sascha grunts in response, hits his backhand a little harder than necessary, and watches with a frown as it sails long. “Good for him,” he mutters. It’s not like he couldn’t have won the title himself if he’d wanted to, but honestly, he’s got better things to do; like play in _real_ tournaments with _real_ opponents and win _real_ ranking points.

 

Who’s even heard of the Next Gen Finals, anyway? It’s a joke of a tournament, and the most Sascha has even thought about it is when he mentioned to his brother in passing that he hoped De Minaur would win so Tsitsipas couldn’t.

 

Later that night, after a long day and what might’ve been the worst practice session of Sascha’s life, he’s in bed when the text arrives. It’s an unknown number, but it’s a picture of Tsitsipas and his shiny new trophy, and Sascha’s not an idiot so he puts two and two together.

 

Whoever gave Tsitsipas his number is getting blocked.

 

If Mischa was here, he’d tell Sascha not to engage, and it’s clearly the best option here so for once Sascha might even listen. Unfortunately, Mischa _isn’t_ here, and Sascha doesn’t care too much about whether it’s a bad idea. He counters: _London is nice this time of year :)_

Tsitsipas doesn’t reply, which is kind of rude if you ask Sascha, but whatever.

 

**

 

It’s surprising even to Sascha when he wins London. He’d taken one look at his group, cursed, and told himself he’d just be happy with one more win than last year- improvement’s the key, after all. Secretly, though, he’d been aiming for the final- he just hadn’t thought he’d _win,_ even if he miraculously made it.

 

But look at him now, smiling his way through a press conference with his biggest trophy yet- and it’s definitely bigger than the one he could’ve added to his collection in Milan- on the table beside him, proof that he’s got something more, something special, that the rest of the so-called _next gen_ don’t. In his opinion, that should’ve already been obvious from the three Masters titles, but it’s nice to have something even more concrete and indisputable on his side.

 

His smile falters for a few seconds when they ask him about Tsitsipas, because _honestly_. He knows he needs to stop publicly mouthing off about the guy- how could he not, when Mischa and his mother tell him so every other day?- but everyone’s making it so _easy_ for him. The press wants a rivalry, and who is Sascha to deny them?

 

He keeps it brief this time, tame by his usual standards, and just suggests that maybe Djokovic wasn’t quite at his best when Tsitsipas beat him in Canada. That’s fairly diplomatic, he thinks, and leaves it at that so the press can do with it what they will.

 

There’s probably going to be a headline tomorrow claiming he challenged Tsitsipas to a duel, but he couldn’t care less. His plan is to still be drunk by then, anyway, so he won’t even have the chance to read about it.

 

Before he goes out, though, he has a brilliant idea- well, Marcelo says it’s an immature idea, but what does Marcelo know about maturity?

 

Sascha stands with the trophy in one hand so the other is free to stick his middle finger up at the camera. Rolling his eyes, but very obligingly taking the picture, Marcelo says, “You’re an idiot.”

 

“I’m a champion,” argues Sascha, snatching his phone back. He hasn’t saved Tsitsipas’ number or anything, but the brief exchange from a week ago is still in his messages- he’s not entirely sure why he hasn’t just deleted it, but that’s so not the point- and he quickly sends the picture off with a witty, mildly rude comment about how it’s nice sitting at the adult table. “Done.”

 

Marcelo sighs, and Sascha grins.

 

The reply comes a few hours later, and it’s just a simple _congratulations_ , which sounds fairly innocuous, but he ends it with a full stop, so Sascha knows he’s succeeded in thoroughly pissing Tsitsipas off.

 

Winning London is, without a doubt, the best feeling of Sascha’s life, but he’s self-aware enough to recognise that annoying Tsitsipas is a close second. And now they’re off to Dubai, and there’s a whole month before he has to worry about dealing with him again at the Hopman Cup.

 

The lack of any talk of Tsitsipas feels almost like another reward for proving himself at the highest level yet, but he still doesn’t delete their messages.

 

**

 

It’s hot in Perth, and Tsitsipas looks like he hasn’t showered since the last time Sascha saw him, though that’s probably only because of the questionable moustache. Or maybe that’s just how he normally looks- Sascha wouldn’t know, and nor does he care to.

 

There’s only a slim chance they’ll even have to play each other this tournament- looking at the groups, Sascha’s betting on another Germany and Switzerland final- except he and Angie will win this one, obviously- so he’s not sure why everyone keeps asking him if he’s ready for another clash with Tsitsipas.

 

And what kind of a question is that, anyway? He’s the fourth best player in the world. Of course he’s ready.

 

“He’s a… tough opponent,” he’s saying to an interviewer, very diplomatically. Angie’s beside him, hiding a smile behind her hand, and if they weren’t on camera he’d tell her to fuck off. He forces a laugh. “But I’m confident. I’m the one with all the experience here.”

 

“Sascha _did_ just win the World Tour Finals,” chimes in Angie, who’s not even trying to hide her amusement now. “He’s the champion of the world.”

 

Sascha snorts. “Says Miss Wimbledon.” He makes the mistake of glancing around at their surroundings then, and realises Tsitsipas is only a few metres away, talking and laughing with a reporter of his own. They make eye contact for a moment, and Tsitsipas raises his eyebrows. Sascha frowns, turning back to the person waving a microphone in his face. “Sorry, what was the question?”

 

The reporter gives an exasperated sigh. “I was just asking about your relationship with Stefanos Tsitsipas,” she says. “Because obviously you’ve both said some _things_ about each other, and we’re all wondering whether there’s some animosity there.”

 

Angie presses her lips tightly together and crinkles her nose as she looks anywhere but at the camera.

 

“Not at all,” says Sascha, and he swears doing so is almost painful. “Tsitsipas and I are fine.” Angie, who has no subtlety whatsoever, elbows him, and it occurs to him that ‘fine’ is hardly a convincing descriptor, and that only ever referring to Tsitsipas by his last name probably won’t help matters. Wishing the ground would just swallow him whole, he adds, “Stefanos and I are… friendly. We even text sometimes.”

 

Sascha doesn’t like the name, doesn’t like the way it rolls off his tongue. His voice rises as he speaks, enough that _Stefanos_ should be able to hear, and hear it he does; Stefanos stumbles over what he’s saying, and tries to cover it up with an excruciatingly obvious fake cough. He recovers quickly though, and nobody but Sascha seems to notice.

 

Once they’re finished with press, Angie can’t stop laughing. “So. You and Stefanos _text_ , huh?” she asks, slinging her racquet bag over her shoulder as they head to practice. “Interesting.”

 

“You’re not cute, Angelique,” he says darkly. “I’ve sent him two texts. Two! And they weren’t even nice.”

 

Angie hums in response.

 

Sascha hadn’t known a simple hum could sound so mocking, but _apparently_.

 

**

 

Sascha’s suit for the New Year’s Eve gala feels even more stifling than usual. Someone’s giving a speech, and he’s wondering vaguely whether it’s acceptable for him to get drunk at an official event. The glass of champagne in his hand is very, very tempting.

 

He doesn’t have to play tomorrow, so really, what’s stopping him?

 

Greece beat Great Britain and the USA. He’s not worried, though; there’s no way they’re getting through Switzerland.

 

Besides, if it comes down to it, Sascha isn’t above bribing tournament officials.

 

Stefanos is across the room, scrolling through his phone. Sascha figures he’s probably tweeting about how mass celebration is a metaphor for the degradation of the bourgeoisie. Or some such bullshit.

 

Mostly, Sascha isn’t too active on social media because he doesn’t have the time, but he won’t deny that a definite part of it is also that he doesn’t want to see anything Stefanos posts. He talks like a fucking fortune cookie.

 

Without even thinking, Sascha pulls out his own phone and sends off a new message. _Nice bow tie._ This is another mean text, because it isn’t a nice bow tie at all. It’s red with polka dots- seriously, who’s _dressing_ this kid?

 

Stefanos looks up, scans the room for a second before he finds Sascha. He shakes his head, and then Sascha’s phone is vibrating a moment later. He chokes a little on his drink when he sees that Stefanos is telling him to wear socks.

 

Sascha glances down at his bare ankles. How can Stefanos even see he’s not wearing socks from that far away? Okay, whatever, but Sascha will _not_ accept criticism from someone with that facial hair. He replies telling Stefanos to shave.

 

When Stefanos suggests he do the same, Sascha switches off his phone. Stefanos smirks at him, gets that same stupid expression on his face that he has whenever he wins a match and starts pumping up the crowd, and Sascha briefly shuts his eyes in defeat.

 

He’s going to need another drink.

 

**

 

Practice with Lendl is never easy. Sascha had spent most of the off-season with him- because London was never the endgame, and now he’s aiming for a Slam and that coveted top spot in the rankings- and had hoped the week in Perth might give him a bit of a break.

 

It’s not like they’re getting any ranking points from this, but no such luck; Lendl seems to think Sascha can’t be trusted for a week on his own. Sascha doesn’t point out that he’s not alone, that Angie’s constantly looking over his shoulder and acting more maternal than his own mother, but he doesn’t think Lendl would listen even if he did. Lendl’s not a bad coach- he’s a great one, in fact- but still, it’s _frustrating_.

 

Sascha leaves the court in a foul mood that only darkens when he runs into Stefanos outside. Literally runs into him, that is; he almost knocks him right over. “Sorry,” he mutters, which they both know is a blatant lie because he couldn’t care less. He’s about to leave, but stops himself. “Hey. You’re playing Switzerland next, yeah?”

 

He thinks he does a good job of making it sound casual, like maybe he doesn’t actually know the answer, like maybe it doesn’t matter.

 

Stefanos nods.

 

“Good,” says Sascha. “Please lose. I want to beat Roger in the final.”

 

There’s a beat of silence, and then Stefanos does something completely unexpected; something sounding suspiciously similar to laughter spills from his lips, and Sascha finds that for a moment he doesn’t know what to do with himself. “You have a lot of faith in yourself,” says Stefanos, and it doesn’t sound much like a compliment.

 

Sascha recovers from the shock of the laughter and flashes a smug grin that feels more like a grimace. “Wouldn’t you?” He shrugs, and then immediately winces; his shoulder’s been killing him all week.

 

Naturally, Stefanos catches it. “Injured?”

 

“No,” says Sascha, almost defensively, which is ridiculous because he’s not even lying. “Just training too hard, too soon.”

 

Stefanos makes a small noise of acknowledgment and then, seemingly out of nowhere, says, “Lendl seems tough.”

 

Sascha isn’t really sure how to respond to that- coaches are _meant_ to be tough, after all- so he just nods.

 

It seems that Stefanos isn’t finished. “But he helped you win London,” he adds. “And now you’re an Australian Open favourite.”

 

There’s a note of bitterness in his voice, and Sascha raises an eyebrow. “So they keep telling me,” he agrees. “What, are you jealous?” It’s not a genuine question; they both know he is. They’ve known each other since they were juniors, and it’s not like Stefanos has a _bad_ career- he’s on a pretty impressive upward spiral, actually- but it’s nothing compared to Sascha’s.

 

Not yet, at least. That’s an unpleasant thought.

 

Stefanos surprises Sascha by answering, and by answering honestly. “Very,” he says, and then gives Sascha’s sore shoulder a light squeeze before walking off.

 

It’s a little unsettling that Sascha can’t tell whether the gesture is meant to be menacing or comforting. It’s even more unsettling that he can’t tell which he wants it to be, and he’s left standing there in confusion for a good few minutes before he realises he’s late for lunch with Angie.

 

Halfway through lunch, it occurs to him that Stefanos shaved.

 

**

 

Sascha’s relatively certain that Greece make it into the final just to spite him. He _knew_ he shouldn’t have talked to Stefanos; nothing good was ever going to come of it, and now he can’t get his revenge over Roger in the final. That’s irritating him even more than now having to play Stefanos, honestly.

 

At least Angie beats Sakkari. It takes off some of the pressure; Angie claims gleefully that she’s carrying the team for the second year in a row.

 

Well. It’s probably true, but she doesn’t need to _say_ it.

 

You know what _is_ putting the pressure on Sascha, though? He’d had match points in the second set, and now they’re in the third and he’s down two match points on his own fucking serve. This is just like Canada, but worse, because he didn’t have too much of a problem with Stefanos back then. Now all everyone talks about is what great rivals they are and will be, and it’s _infuriating._

Because Sascha and Stefanos? They’re not rivals. Sascha’s twenty-one with ten titles to his name, and Stefanos is twenty with like, one and a half titles. So, no, there’s no competition. Not in terms of tennis, anyway; their looks, maybe- except _no_ , Stefanos is _not_ attractive, not at all, and Sascha wants to hit himself over the head with his racquet for even thinking it.

 

It’s the heat; it’s starting to melt his brain.

 

Sascha shakes his head, frowns across the net, and slams out an ace.

 

Fitting, then, that with one match point saved and another hanging around him like a dark cloud, he double faults.

 

The quick exchange at the net isn’t as tense as it could be. He doesn’t quite manage a smile to match Stefanos’ beaming grin, but he figures nobody will blame him. There’s no hug or anything, but Stefanos does give Sascha’s back a quick few pats, and Sascha’s overly aware of the fact that, this time, Stefanos is making a point of avoiding his still sore shoulder.

 

Stefanos is probably trying to be nice when he mutters about it being a good match, but to Sascha it just seems like bait that he refuses to bite, so he just nods in response.

 

It’s okay, though; he and Angie are going to snatch the win in the doubles. 

 

**

 

Except, the thing is: Sascha and Angie end the tournament as the runners-up for the second consecutive year, so you can imagine how unhappy Sascha is when he arrives in Melbourne a few weeks later to find that he and Stefanos are in the same quarter of the Australian Open draw.

 

Sascha must have some seriously bad karma.

 

He’s sitting in a pre-tournament press conference, bored out of his mind, when the inevitable Stefanos question comes. He expects it at this point, even if he doesn’t like it, but this question is particularly grating; some sharp faced reporter wants to know if he thinks Stefanos is his biggest threat in their half of the draw.

 

Rafael fucking Nadal is in their half of the draw.

 

Honestly, it’s not like Sascha even expects to have to play Stefanos. His Slam record is even worse than Sascha’s; he’ll probably fall to a qualifier in the second round, and they can’t meet before the fourth.

 

Still. The question really gets on his nerves, and he really doesn’t think he can be blamed for what he says next. “A few good months doesn’t make you a champion,” he bites out, bitterly. “Stefanos Tsitsipas is an overrated hack who’ll never be a threat to _anyone_ at this level.”

 

The room, predictably, loses it.

 

Sascha, in a rare moment of wisdom, ends the press conference and gets the fuck out of there.

 

Back at the hotel, Marcelo laughs at him for approximately ten minutes. Mischa just shakes his head.

 

This is going to be an interesting fortnight.

 

**

 

It’s nothing short of miraculous, in Sascha’s opinion, that both he and Stefanos actually make it to the fourth round. Less miraculous is that Sascha wins their clash in the fifth set- less miraculous to Sascha, anyway, because before the match an alarming amount of people were suggesting that Stefanos might pull off the upset.

 

Sascha’s just glad those people acknowledged that it would be an upset.

 

The on-court interview with Jim Courier is mercifully short, and Sascha stumbles through an almost apology for his comments before the tournament as he insists that they’d been taken out of context and that he thinks Stefanos is a ‘very good player.’ At that last bit, the crowd laughs like they don’t believe a word he’s saying, which he thinks is pretty unfair of them; honestly, he _does_ think Stefanos is a good player. He just also thinks that he happens to be better.

 

He manages not to say that out loud, and is pretty proud of himself for it.

 

Back in the locker room, which he’d expected to find already empty but apparently the universe doesn’t think he deserves to catch a single break, Stefanos is sitting on one of the benches and taking a picture of what appears to be… a broken tennis racquet inside an otherwise empty locker?

 

Stefanos hadn’t even smashed a racquet during the match, but whatever. It’s probably best for Sascha’s sanity that he doesn’t question it, but he makes a mental note to tell everyone he knows not to like the picture when it inevitably makes its way to Instagram.

 

Petty, considering he’s just beaten Stefanos to make it into the quarterfinals, but he probably would’ve done it if he’d lost, too, and wouldn’t that just be even _more_ petty? The point is, Sascha thinks if he puts in enough effort he might be able to get this guy bullied off social media, which is what’s best for everyone involved.

 

Looking up as he hears Sascha walk in, an odd expression crosses Stefanos’ face. “That was a long interview,” he says, and it’s almost like an accusation, like he thinks maybe Sascha took the opportunity to talk about how crap he is again.

 

That’s kind of the opposite of what Sascha did, but he doesn’t really care what Stefanos thinks, so he snorts. “They wanted to talk about you,” he says, and then purposefully doesn’t elaborate.

 

“Five sets,” says Stefanos after a few beats of uncomfortable silence as Sascha just stands there, completely unsure of what he’s meant to do with himself. “Not bad for a talentless hack.”

 

Sascha frowns. “I never said talentless,” he argues. “Just overrated.” He pauses, then sighs. “It’s not like I meant it. You’re good. You _know_ you’re good.”

 

“Good?”

 

For reasons unknown, Sascha blushes. “At tennis,” he clarifies, but he feels he probably shouldn’t need to. Like, what else would he be talking about? He glances at the racquet in the locker. Obviously, he’s not saying that Stefanos is good at Instagram. “You’re good at tennis.”

 

Stefanos almost smiles. Or maybe that _is_ a smile; Sascha doesn’t know him well enough to be sure. “I’m good at tennis,” he agrees. “But not as good as you.”

 

This is where Sascha should make a joke- where, normally, he _would_ make a joke. There’s something in Stefanos’ voice, though, that stops him; a little hint of self-deprecation that feels uncomfortably honest, and Sascha hates that. Why even play a sport when you’re not confident in your abilities? “Not yet,” he says finally. “You’re not as good as me _yet_.”

 

It pains him to say that, just a little. He really, truly hopes they never get to the point where Stefanos is as good as him, and he has to take back every bad word he’s ever said about him. That day’s already too close for comfort.

 

Stefanos hadn’t been smiling a moment ago, and Sascha knows this for certain when his face now splits into a wide grin. It’s one Sascha’s seen before, actually, but only rarely; as far as he’s aware, that smile only makes appearances in pictures online and in interviews after big wins, and it’s certainly never been directed at Sascha. Honestly, it’s kind of devastating.

 

“One day,” says Stefanos, who’s clearly amused by the admission. “What, on my twenty first birthday will Roger Federer show up at my house and tell me how to win my first Masters?”

 

Sascha won his first _two_ Masters when he was twenty, but feels like that probably isn’t a productive thing to say here, so he just shrugs. “Something like that.” Honestly, now Sascha thinks about it, he’s a little annoyed that Stefanos hadn’t ended up winning in Canada; what was the point of taking out half of the top-10 if he couldn’t even follow through? Sascha had really wanted to defend that title, and he’d lost to Stefanos for nothing.

 

Granted, it was hardly Stefanos’ fault that he’d lost, but that’s irrelevant. Sascha needs _something_ to be mad at him for, and that’s the first thing that comes to mind. It’s always a good fallback position; whenever his hatred for Stefanos starts to waver, he can just remember how angry he still is that Stefanos had the audacity to beat him.

 

Plenty of people have beaten Sascha, but for some reason, it’s Stefanos that really gets to him. And it’s not even that he hates him- not really, and definitely not all the time. It’s more that Stefanos _frustrates_ Sascha; he keeps saying and doing things that Sascha doesn’t know how to interpret or react to, and that helplessness isn’t a feeling that Sascha’s overly fond of.

 

Like now, for instance. Stefanos is looking up at him, oddly expectant, like he’s waiting for Sascha to say something else, but Sascha can’t figure out what it is that Stefanos wants to hear. Eventually, he settles on, “You didn’t respond.”

 

Stefanos frowns. “Respond to what?”

 

“The press conference,” explains Sascha. Waiting for an answering insult has had him on edge all week. “You were meant to say something equally cruel so the press could get over it. It’s what we _do_.”

 

Stefanos stands, and they’re close enough that they’re almost touching. He’s a little shorter than Sascha, so he’s still looking up at him as he says, “Well. If I _was_ going to say something, it’d be that you need to be more aggressive with your first serves if you want to win this tournament.”

 

That stumps Sascha for a minute. He’s not used to Stefanos being helpful- or any opponent being helpful, really. “I just beat you,” he says, confused. “And now you want me to win it all?”

 

“I never said that,” says Stefanos, evasive, and then he smirks. “But if I _was_ saying that, well… better you than Novak, right?”

 

Sascha considers this for a moment. “Novak probably disagrees.”

 

Stefanos laughs. “Yeah, probably,” he says. “But he doesn’t need to keep winning. Time to let someone else hold the trophies.”

 

“Time to let _me_ hold the trophies, apparently,” says Sascha, grinning in spite of himself.

 

Stefanos starts to move away, toward the exit, but pauses for a moment. “You know what they say,” he says. “If you can’t beat them, join them.”

 

Sascha frowns. “But you _can_ beat me,” he says, a little reluctantly. “You already have.”

 

“Just not when it counts,” says Stefanos. “Good luck for the quarters. You’ll need it.”

 

Oddly enough, Sascha doesn’t even know who he’s supposed to be playing next. He hadn’t looked at the draw at Roland-Garros last year, and when that turned out to be his best Slam result he figured it might be good luck not to check up on his opponents. He wouldn’t have even known about the possibility of playing Stefanos if the press hadn’t mentioned it every second question. Still, he can’t resist asking, “Who is it?”

 

Stefanos raises his eyebrows, then smirks a little. “Khachanov. Didn’t go so well for you last time, did it?”

 

Sascha was _injured_ , but doesn’t bother bringing that up. It’d sound like a cheap defense, like he’s making up excuses for himself and taking away from Khachanov’s win. Instead, he smirks right back. “Have you been checking up on me?”

 

“Haven’t you been checking up on me?” asks Stefanos, but it’s not really a question. He clearly already knows the answer. Of course Sascha’s been checking up on him; it’s what rivals _do_.

 

Sascha isn’t really sure what to say to that, so he just watches as Stefanos leaves.

 

**

 

Sascha wins his quarterfinal in four sets and, true to form, loses the semifinal to Nadal in the fifth. It stings, but not as much as it did two years ago when he was younger and less experienced and, oddly enough, even more eager to succeed than he is now.

 

Success had felt like a probability back then, but not a certainty. Now it seems sure.

 

And it doesn’t matter, anyway; he’s got big plans to take Rafa down in his own playground at Roland-Garros later in the year, because that’s the best revenge he can think of. He’ll try and snatch another few clay Masters while he’s at it, but France is the endgame here. Then he’s not sure what he’ll do; aim for Olympic gold, maybe? He has a feeling that once he gets that coveted first Slam, anything will be possible.

 

The morning after his loss, he sleeps in until midday, which he thinks is deserved, and wakes up to a message from Stefanos- _You didn’t work on your serve-_ which, honestly, kind of pisses him off. He _had_ been conscious of his serve, and had hit the most aces of any match in the whole tournament- a tournament in which _John Isner_ had played four matches- and who is Stefanos to say he hadn’t worked on it?

 

Probably Stefanos had just been trying to throw him off his game all along, and if so, he’s clearly succeeded.

 

Sascha ignores the message, but another one comes later in the day when he’s commiserating with Marcelo, who’s just been knocked out of the doubles. Friends who fail together, stay together? It’s all very depressing.

 

He tells himself he’s not going to look at the message, that he’s going to focus all his attention on destroying Marcelo at Fifa, but then his phone goes off for a second time and, before Sascha can stop him, Marcelo reaches over and snatches it up from the table.

 

“Sorry,” he reads aloud, “Tough loss. You played well.” He looks up and frowns for a moment, and then grins devilishly. “Since when do you and Tsitsipas text each other?”

 

Sascha grabs his phone back, forces himself not to look down at the messages. “Stefanos and I do not _text_ ,” he says. “We _have_ texted. Briefly. On occasion. But not really.” He’s not sure why he sounds so unconvincing; he’s telling the truth.

 

This just seems to amuse Marcelo even more, and he wags his eyebrows for a moment because _subtlety_ isn’t a word that’s in his vocabulary. “Since when do you call him Stefanos?”

 

Sascha feels like any answer is going to be the wrong answer, so he stays quiet. For about a minute, anyway, because he’s never kept his mouth shut in his life. “It’s not like we’re friends,” he says. “We don’t even like each other. I’m just- being civil, you know? I don’t want _everyone_ on tour to hate me.”

 

“Too late,” says Marcelo, snorting. They go back to their game, and that’s that.

 

Sascha doesn’t reply, doesn’t even _look_ at the messages, until hours later when Marcelo’s gone, and he figures it’d be rude if he waits any longer. His and Stefanos’ schedules, by some remarkable good luck, don’t align until Indian Wells, and so when he can’t think of a better answer he simply texts back, _See you in California_.

 

**

 

California’s hot, but not as hot as Melbourne, and the courts are slower here.

 

Sascha manages to avoid Stefanos for a whole two days before he realises they’re at the same hotel. They’re waiting for an incredibly slow elevator to get from the eleventh floor to the lobby, and apparently it’s stopping at every floor along the way because it feels to Sascha like they’ve been waiting forever. “You’ve got a good draw,” he finally says when the silence becomes almost unbearable.

 

“Better than yours,” agrees Stefanos, quick and easy. “Good luck with Novak.”

 

A presumptuous statement, maybe, but Sascha lets it slide because there’s really no doubt in his mind either that he and Novak will meet in the semis. He’s not exactly looking forward to it, but he’s not exactly anxious either; he’s playing the best tennis he’s ever played, and some masochistic part of him is almost excited to test it against arguably the best tennis Novak has ever played.

 

He’s going to regret that sentiment when he loses.

 

The elevator light switches to show it’s reached the fifth floor, finally, and Sascha just barely resists the urge to check his watch. He’s not sure what his opinion of Stefanos is anymore, but he knows everything made a lot more sense when he mostly just couldn’t stand him.

 

They both reach forward to press the elevator button again at the same time. Their hands knock together, and Sascha pulls back like he’s been burned. Stefanos gives him a _look,_ and actually, Sascha _is_ getting kind of warm, but he’s at least eighty percent certain that’s unrelated.

 

It’s _hot_ in this lobby.

 

Maybe, if Sascha concentrates really hard, the elevator will get here faster. He tries this for a second, but gives up when it still only dings down to the third floor. Close enough, yet somehow still not.

 

“Actually,” says Sascha. “I just remembered I’m meeting someone.” He doesn’t wait for a response and turns on his heel to leave the hotel altogether, ignoring Stefanos’ open-mouthed look of confusion.

 

Sascha might just be losing his mind.

 

**

 

Sascha beats Novak 7-5 in the third. It’s the first semifinal, and Stefanos is playing Rafa in the second, which has Sascha completely on edge. He stumbles his way through the on-court interview after his win, and lets out a short, nervous laugh when they ask if he’ll be watching the other match.

 

Naturally, he says no.

 

Naturally, he is lying.

 

He doesn’t watch it from the stands, though, because that would just be way too obvious. Instead, he holes himself up in his hotel room and uses all his self-control to not empty out the mini-bar. It would make the viewing more bearable, but would almost certainly ruin his chances at the title.

 

Honestly, he’s not even sure who he wants to win this match. There’s no way it ends well for him; he either plays Rafa and gets destroyed _again_ , or he plays Stefanos and has to deal with the inevitable media storm if he loses.

 

That’s not even accounting for the fact that he can’t decipher any of Stefanos’ words or looks, and it’s really throwing him off his game. Stefanos will make some indecipherable expression from across the court, and Sascha will be so confused by it that he’ll double fault an entire game away.

 

Rafa, he decides. He wants Rafa to win; at least if he loses there, nobody can fault him for it.

 

Since Melbourne, Sascha and Stefanos have talked a little more. Stefanos won in Rotterdam and sent Sascha a picture of himself and his entourage celebrating; a few weeks after that, Sascha had been triumphant in Acapulco and sent an almost drunk message about how Stefanos hasn’t caught up to him yet.

 

A few other messages in between, but Sascha doesn’t want to think about that; it just kind of makes his head hurt. Still no calls, though, which is probably for the best. Sascha isn’t sure what an actual conversation would sound like, and he’s not sure he wants to find out.

 

On screen, Stefanos loses the first set on a stray forehand that shoots long. The minibar is looking more and more appealing, but then he comes back and wins the match in a third set tiebreak.

 

The crowd’s applause is oddly thunderous; who actually comes to matches and is excited to see Rafa _lose_? Well, Sascha usually is, but that’s mostly personal. He was a lot happier to watch Rafa win when it was other people he was beating.

 

He would’ve been really, spectacularly happy to see Rafa beat Stefanos again.

 

**

 

It’s never a good sign when you can’t sleep the night before a final, but Sascha is reluctantly satisfied when his phone lighting up with an incoming message from Stefanos reveals that he’s not the only one tossing and turning.

 

The message only asks if he’s awake, and for exactly three minutes and seventeen seconds- he’s staring at the clock- he contemplates ignoring it. Then he sighs and, feeling like it’s a mistake even as he does it, replies with a thumbs-up.

 

After ten minutes, there’s a knock on Sascha’s door, and he reluctantly crawls out of bed to answer it. It’s Stefanos, and he’s shirtless, and Sascha has to blink a few times to be sure he’s not just hallucinating or dreaming or something- _not_ that he’s been dreaming of a shirtless Stefanos. Obviously not.

 

Sascha’s not sure why Stefanos’ state of mild undress is so surprising. He’s shirtless, too, but still- he hadn’t expected this. Actually, he’s not sure what he’d expected, but it definitely hadn’t been Stefanos showing up at his door at all, though he supposes stranger things have happened.

 

Like, for instance, Stefanos beating Rafa. He doesn’t say that, though, because then Stefanos might get mad and spend the entire match tomorrow trying to hit Sascha as hard as humanly possible.

 

“Hi,” says Sascha, once he’s done with his blinking.

 

Stefanos steps inside. “Hello,” he says, glancing around at Sascha’s mess. There’s no less than three dirty shirts scattered around the floor, and half of the bed is covered in racquets he hasn’t been bothered to put away. “Good match today.”

 

“Yeah,” says Sascha warily. There has to be an ulterior motive here, right?

 

“I wasn’t watching,” says Stefanos quickly, almost like he’s embarrassed at the thought that he might have been. “But I saw the highlights earlier. Seemed intense.”

 

That’s certainly one word for it. “Yours, too,” says Sascha, shifting uneasily from one foot to the other. His hotel room suddenly feels stifling, like there isn’t space here for the both of them. It’s a strange feeling, and before he can stop himself, he blurts out something he’ll surely regret in the morning. “I _was_ watching.”

 

It feels like an admission of guilt, like somehow he’s just revealed something he shouldn’t have, which is ridiculous because who _cares_ that he watched the match? It’s not like it means anything.

 

Stefanos, though, seems to think it means something. His eyebrows shoot up in surprise, and for a few moments it’s like he doesn’t have anything to say. Then his mouth widens into a light, almost unsure smile. “Well,” he says. “I won’t gloat that I got a win over Rafa before you.”

 

“You should,” says Sascha. “I would.”

 

That makes Stefanos laugh. “Yeah, but you’re you,” he says, like that’s explanation enough, and Sascha isn’t sure whether he should be offended by it or not. Probably, but he doesn’t have the energy for it. “Anyway. I just came to congratulate you. Guess I’ll see you in the final.”

 

Sascha nods. “I’ll be the one on the other side of the net,” he replies, which may just be the dumbest thing he’s ever said in his entire life. He clearly needs to sleep.

 

It doesn’t seem to bother Stefanos, though, who just laughs again, like Sascha’s just said something witty and funny, which he most definitely _hasn’t_. “I’ll be the one holding the trophy,” he says with a gleam in his eye, which Sascha thinks is a little unfair, but he can hardly fault him for the same arrogance he himself is so frequently accused of possessing. “I’d wish you luck but… you know.”

 

Sascha does know. “Yeah,” he says as Stefanos turns to leave, and then he thinks, _fuck it_. “Good luck, Stefanos.”

 

There’s a moment of hesitation as Stefanos pauses at the door, and then he flashes Sascha a quick smile. “Thanks,” he says. “You, too, Sascha.”

 

He leaves it at that, and once he’s gone Sascha collapses back into bed and wonders what the fuck he’s gotten himself into. Whatever it is, it _cannot_ be good.

 

**

 

The final lasts almost exactly two hours, and there’s nothing separating them. Sascha wins the first set on a tiebreak, and Stefanos wins the second 7-5. It’s currently 5-4 in the third, and Sascha just had two match points on Stefanos’ serve; he dropped both of them, and now Stefanos is serving at deuce.

 

He hits a fault, and then manages a second serve ace which, in Sascha’s opinion, is totally unnecessary. They’re back at deuce when a backhand smashes into the net, and then a shockingly good volley from Sascha brings him up to match point again.

 

Double fault, and the crowd goes wild. Sascha blinks up into the fading sun and raises his hands in glee and relief; across the net, Stefanos is shaking his head a little as he approaches, but he doesn’t look nearly as disappointed as Sascha himself probably would have. Benefits of being a more evolved human being, supposes Sascha.

 

Sascha meets Stefanos at the net, moves on autopilot as he wraps an arm around his neck and pats his chest in a gesture that’s something close to affectionate. Stefanos says something about Sascha being too good, and Sascha laughs a little. “I’ll let you have Miami,” he says before pulling away.

 

That’s a lie, of course. Sascha’s still bitter about last year’s Miami final, and isn’t willing to let _anyone_ have it. Then again, he supposes Stefanos would be better than _Isner_ defending the title. That’s hardly a high bar, though, because pretty much anyone would be better than Isner.

 

The trophy ceremony is long, and yet somehow it feels longer. Stefanos’ speech makes Sascha laugh but not the crowd, and Sascha’s speech makes the crowd laugh but not Stefanos. That seems to be the way of things.

 

Still, there’s a _moment_. Sascha’s been taking pictures with the trophy and with people for what seems like hours, and when he realises Stefanos is still there- still _watching_ \- he gives what feels like his truest smile of the day.

 

Stefanos responds in kind.

 

**

 

Later that night, and Sascha’s in a club he doesn’t know the name of with a lot of people whose names he doesn’t know, either. Mischa and Marcelo had both flown out to Miami earlier that night, but he figures he deserves a little celebration. Maybe he’s had a drink or two too many to be responding to a post-midnight congratulatory text from Stefanos, but who’s going to stop a champion?

 

For the first time, he doesn’t type out a hasty message; before he can give himself time to regret it, he slips out the club’s back door and hits the call button.

 

Stefanos answers on the second ring. “Hi,” he says.

 

“Hey,” replies Sascha. Fuck, this is already awkward. He should probably just hang up, but he doesn’t. He’s always been a talker, and even more so when he’s nervous, so he keeps doing just that. “Thanks for letting me win today.”

 

Something sounding suspiciously like a _scoff_ travels down the line. “I didn’t let you win shit,” says Stefanos, and Sascha can’t tell if he sounds amused or annoyed. Maybe both. “You were just better.”

 

Sascha snorts. “Barely,” he says, but thinks that might make him sound like an asshole, so he changes the subject. “What time’s your flight?”

 

Obviously, neither of them are playing the first day in Miami, which is the only reason Sascha felt like he could go out tonight, and probably the only reason Mischa hadn’t hauled him halfway across the country with him earlier.

 

“Ten,” says Stefanos. “You?”

 

Sascha smiles to himself. “Ten,” he replies, then squints down at his watch. It’s getting close to two now, but he figures he can just sleep on the plane so that hardly matters. “You should go to bed.”

 

“So should you,” counters Stefanos.

 

“Can’t,” says Sascha, not even thinking about it. “No fun sleeping alone.” Well, _oops_.

 

There’s such an uncomfortably long stretch of silence that Sascha thinks Stefanos might have hung up on him without him even noticing, but then there’s a short cough. “No,” says Stefanos. “It’s not. But you don’t have to.”

 

“Is that an invitation?”

 

“Do you want it to be?”

 

Sascha doesn’t really know what to say to that, but he’s already walking back around to the front of the club to grab a taxi.

 

**

 

The lobby of their hotel is obscenely bright even in the middle of the night, and Sascha spots Stefanos as soon as he rushes in; he’s lounging in one of the armchairs, either holding his phone at a really odd angle for some aesthetic purpose, or he’s taking a picture of the almost empty fruit bowl on the coffee table.

 

Honestly, Sascha isn’t even sure which is worse, so once he reaches him, he doesn’t bother asking. He just clears his throat, a little awkwardly, and waits for Stefanos to finish whatever it is he’s doing.

 

Stefanos looks up, and he has that smile again; the one he gets whenever he’s won, the one Sascha so rarely sees. Sascha has the strangest feeling that the smile’s made its appearance now because maybe Stefanos _has_ won something today.

 

The win just isn’t tennis related.

 

“I never said I wanted to share a bed with you,” blurts out Sascha, because he can’t think of anything else to say, and wants to make it clear that none of this is his doing. He’s just going along with it.

 

Stefanos pockets his phone and stands up, still smiling. “Got any other offers?” he asks, which totally isn’t fair. Sascha could’ve brought anyone back that he wanted. It just so happens he _hadn’t_ wanted to.

 

It takes Sascha a moment too long to respond. “I was just going to go snuggle with the trophy,” he says, and now he thinks about it, that’s probably a much better idea than whatever else might possibly be about to happen.

 

He spent the twenty minutes he took to get here acting like he doesn’t know exactly what’s about to happen, but of course he knows, so he isn’t surprised in the least when Stefanos reaches for him. One of Stefanos’ hands reaches out and curls around Sascha’s bicep, fingers digging almost painfully into the muscle, but the gesture’s oddly comforting; it grounds Sascha somehow, keeps him present in the moment even as his mind threatens to drift off into the clouds.

 

Stefanos tilts his head to the side, questioning, and he must see the answer written all over Sascha’s face because he smiles and starts leading them toward the elevator. He leads them all the way up to Sascha’s room, and like the night before Sascha doesn’t bother asking how he got the room number. It’s hardly a pertinent aspect of the matter at hand.

 

What _is_ pertinent, though: Stefanos stopping outside Sascha’s door and casually dropping his hand into the pocket of Sascha’s jeans, fumbling around for the key as if it’s a totally normal thing they do all the time.

 

Sascha stops him with a loose grip around Stefanos’ wrist, waits until Stefanos tilts his head back up to meet his gaze, and then he does this: he tangles his free hand in Stefanos’ overgrown hair, and kisses him.

 

As it is, even if there’s very little sleep involved- both because they have to get to the airport relatively early, and _other_ reasons- they do share the bed that night. If he’s being honest, Sascha figures this is probably always where they were going to end up.


End file.
